


Growing Better

by the_pen_is_mightier



Series: Surviving Hell [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Angst and Fluff, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Aziraphale loves Crowley, Crowley loves Aziraphale, Feelings, Hurt Crowley, M/M, Nightmares, Panic Attacks, Protective Aziraphale, Recovery, References to Abuse, References to Torture, Traumatized Crowley, lots of plant projection, this one is mostly comfort, wing healing, wing preening
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-08
Updated: 2020-03-13
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:13:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22178350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_pen_is_mightier/pseuds/the_pen_is_mightier
Summary: The trauma Crowley's experienced is not easily forgotten, though he's now free of Hell. But he's not alone.(a follow-up fic to "A Certain Kind of Gentle Terror," which you should probably read before reading this)
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Surviving Hell [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1596442
Comments: 131
Kudos: 402





	1. Chapter 1

“Show them to me,” said Crowley. 

Aziraphale’s mouth twisted, though his eyes were still soft, full of concern. “Are you sure?” 

_“Show them,”_ he growled. 

Aziraphale let out a long breath and turned his back on Crowley. They were seated on the floor of his bookshop; the contented buzz of the Ritz, the relief at their meeting in the park, at seeing Aziraphale alive and smiling after his time in Hell, had faded away. Crowley was serious now. 

“And no miraculous concealments,” he said as Aziraphale adjusted his posture, preparing to release his wings. 

Aziraphale didn’t snipe back. He knew - oh, his angel always knew, always saw through Crowley’s stupid illusions - that Crowley was only being sharp because he was working violently to keep his voice from trembling. He was squeezing his hands together tightly in his lap to keep them still, and he was biting his tongue, hard, for a reason he didn’t dare stop to fathom. 

The angel’s wings shook free. They were large, larger than Crowley’s, and beautifully white, a stark contrast to his ugly black ones. They were softer than his, too, and radiated a certain warmth that Crowley had never been able to properly describe. 

And they were bleeding. 

“Aziraphale.” Crowley’s eyes squeezed shut the moment they took in the crimson stripes across the white feathers. His heart thundered in his ears for a moment, swelling in his throat and threatening to choke him. They weren’t as bad as he’d feared, weren’t the withered, broken, lacerated things he’d been trying to force himself not to imagine - but Crowley knew pain, and he knew they hurt. 

“Go on,” said Aziraphale, his voice calm and gentle. “Touch them, if you’d like. They’re not broken beyond repair. They’ll heal.” 

Crowley reached out a quaking hand, touching the edge of a single fluffy feather as lightly, as tenderly as he could. A part of him wanted to throw up, just looking at wounds like this again. There was a reason he’d kept his wings hidden from himself for so long. It made memories, terrible, excruciating memories tear through him like fire. And another part of him wanted to damn himself a thousand more times for even thinking of letting them do this to Aziraphale; imagining the lashes landing on these beautiful wings and knowing he’d agreed to it, knowing he’d permitted Aziraphale to take that punishment instead of him. 

But another part, a smaller, but an insistent part, wanted to keep looking. Because the cuts were deep and they burned, but even now, even when his mind was screaming at him that he was just as worthless as he’d always been told, he could see clearly enough that they weren’t permanent. That Aziraphale was right - they’d heal, even if no other angel was around to miracle them whole again. 

“Go on,” said Aziraphale again. 

Crowley scooted forward, and stroked his hand gently down the edge of one wing. He caressed delicate bone and muscle. Then he leaned forward, pressing two light, tentative kisses to the spots where Aziraphale’s wings met his back. He felt Aziraphale shiver and relax into the loving touch. 

“I’m sorry,” Crowley murmured, wrapping his arms around Aziraphale’s waist, drawing Aziraphale tenderly against his chest, carefully cradling those precious wings. “I’m so sorry.” 

And then he forced himself to say the other thing, the thing he knew Aziraphale really wanted him to say, though it felt stupid and wrong and useless in his mouth. Though apologies came so much easier from his devil’s tongue. He choked the words out, laying them as lovingly as he could against Aziraphale’s neck. “Thank you.” 

Aziraphale turned, his wings still spread behind him. His eyes sought Crowley’s as he leaned into his chest. Then his hands - those agonizingly gentle hands, which Crowley was still trying desperately to get used to touching him - slipped up to hold Crowley’s face. 

“I can’t imagine what it was like, going through that for thousands of years,” he said. 

Crowley pulled away a fraction of an inch, on pure instinct. He looked down and stuttered out a shrug. “I - I got used to it. I told you that. I got numb to it after a while.” 

“Crowley.” 

Aziraphale’s eyes would not be ignored. The love in them, the dizzying, bottomless gentleness, bored though Crowley’s defenses. Before he could stop himself a tear had slipped down his cheek. And in the next moment Aziraphale’s warm forehead was pressed against his, and Aziraphale’s breath had caught hold of his, turning his quick, jerky inhalations steady and slow. 

“My dearest Crowley,” Aziraphale whispered, and kissed him. 

Aziraphale’s lips were soft, softer than Crowley had ever dared to imagine. It felt like falling, when his angel kissed him like this - not the fathomless drop of millennia ago but a freeing, weightless fall, one he could already feel himself being caught from as Aziraphale’s arms wrapped around him, clasping him tight to the softest, warmest body in the world.

More tears slipped through, silent tears as Crowley hugged Aziraphale hard and let the embrace overtake him. Oh, it was terrifying to be here. It was beautiful, it was wondrous, but it was terrifying too - terrifying to think that he was giving himself, letting himself feel, letting himself relax in the arms of someone else. How badly could Aziraphale hurt him now? How utterly could he be destroyed, if Aziraphale pulled away? Hope was a priceless thing, and yet it did demand a price. Crowley could feel how fragile the ground was beneath him. He’d spent so long at the bottom of the world he’d forgotten what it was to fear sinking lower.

Easier, now, to focus on Aziraphale. Gently he directed the angel to turn back around. 

“Tell me -” Crowley could barely get the words out; there were so many emotions buried within them. “Tell me if it hurts.” 

“I will.” 

Crowley bit his lip and let his fingers work on instinct. He could leave the wounds clean and dressed, anyway. And he could keep caressing Aziraphale’s wings, running his fingers through them with all the love he could hold, making his angel feel the opposite of what the demonic punishment had made him feel. Making him feel what Crowley had felt, the night Aziraphale had healed him - that there was no danger here, that he could freely give up his life, his soul, and he would not be hurt. That Aziraphale could trust him with this. 

Aziraphale sighed. “Oh, my darling.” 

“Does it feel all right?”

“It feels wonderful.” Crowley could hear the smile in Aziraphale’s voice, and suddenly all he wanted in the universe was to kiss a million more smiles from that beautiful mouth, to caress a million more sighs from his throat, to give himself completely and forever to this consuming love. 

Instead he leaned his head, just briefly, against Aziraphale’s snow-white curls. “Just tell me if it starts to hurt. I’ll - I’ll take care of you.” 

_____

He wanted to trust it. To relax into Aziraphale’s embrace and believe it was eternal, to understand that Aziraphale loved him, to know that Hell had no more power over him. He had felt the fear of the angels when he’d stepped into that hellfire in Aziraphale’s place; he knew they were too unnerved to go after his angel. But it was impossible for him to picture Beelzebub and Hastur simply giving up. Not after everything they’d done to him, not after six thousand years.

“It’s not possible,” he muttered. “It’s not. I know it’s not.” 

He wasn’t sure how he’d ended up here. Alone in his flat again, and surrounded by his plants. He’d told Aziraphale he wanted some time alone, and driven here as fast as he could; why? What did he want from this place? What was there for him here, now? 

The plants loomed above him. He glared up at their verdant leaves; he could hear them trembling as his demonic energy radiated off him. He knew they were terrified. 

“How am I supposed to believe I can keep this?” he demanded. “I’ve already been cast out of Heaven. I’m not going to be un-damned. What’s the best a creature like me can hope for, even if I’m not employed by Hell?”

They didn’t answer. They merely continued to tremble as if in some intangible high wind.

“He loves me,” Crowley said, and the words sounded ridiculous as they painted the air. Aziraphale wasn’t here to confirm it. He had no one but himself, in this room filled to the brim with fear. “He loves me, I know he does. I - he said he does.” 

The plants he’d grown himself, hauled out of the dirt and forced to spread their most beautiful buds, the plants he’d poured his own terror into for decades, seemed now to tower over him like nightmares. He knew they feared him. How could they not, when he held so much power over them? When he could destroy them with a snap of his fingers? When he’d created them, and could with even less effort destroy them?

He wondered if they knew how much he feared them. 

“He loves me,” said Crowley, and he sounded desperate. 

The leaves shivered, and Crowley thought of them waiting, keeping still until he turned his back, then falling upon him and tearing him to pieces. He shut his eyes and buried his face in his hands.

“He told me he loves me. He went to Hell for me. He’s going to protect me.”

There was no response.

What had he hoped to get out of coming here? What did he think would happen when he confronted these plants? Had he hoped to find them changed, somehow miraculously healed as his wings had been? 

Crowley practically ran from the room. He bolted back down the stairs and to his Bentley. He needed to drive, as fast as possible, as far as possible from here. He needed to clear his head before his thoughts destroyed him.


	2. Chapter 2

It was inevitable. Just as inevitable as it had always been, those thousands of years where he’d been alone. If there was one thing in the universe that couldn’t change, no matter how long and how hard and how desperately he’d tried, it was him. It was the fact that eventually, he was bound to make a mistake. 

Crowley woke up a week after the apocalypse with his head on Aziraphale’s chest. 

He hadn’t even begun to chronicle all the strange and wonderful things about the new life he and the angel shared; the quick exchanged smiles, the casual touches, the freedom to be close. The ability to tell Aziraphale _I love you_ , and to hear, staggeringly, those same words returned. But waking up like this had to be close to the top. It felt safe, felt warm; he’d spent so long sleeping curled in on himself, shivering through the winters alone. Aziraphale’s arms were around him now as he woke.

He managed to spend nearly half a minute, this time, basking in the easy contentment of this embrace. He managed to feel that he was held, that he was loved, that he had nothing to fear. Then his eyes sprang open.

_Angel_ , he wanted to say. _Angel, what are you doing here?_

Aziraphale moved slightly and let out a sleepy sigh. Crowley stared up at him, at his soft, round cheeks, at his bed-rumpled hair; what was he doing, sleeping by Crowley’s side like this? How was it possible he could _want_ Crowley, after he’d seen what Hell was like? What Crowley belonged to?

How could he not feel the terror Crowley felt, that this was all doomed to fail? That they were fooling themselves on borrowed time?

Aziraphale’s arms tightened slightly. Crowley lowered his head and drew his arms around his own waist, hugging himself. It was a position he’d folded himself into plenty of times before, when he’d felt he was struggling to hold his own body together. To keep from breaking into pieces. And he tried, vainly, to draw some comfort from the memories of this brief week. From Aziraphale’s promises. From his love.

_Angel, what am I going to do when this all comes crashing down?_

_____

It was inevitable, but still it took Crowley by surprise. It took him when he wasn’t ready for it. He’d plastered on his finest suit and his most winning smile and tempted Aziraphale out to lunch; they entered a dimly lit sushi restaurant, Aziraphale already working himself into excitement at the menu. As they were led to their seats, Crowley was in a good mood; they’d spent the morning in, and he’d gotten a good long drive in to get here at a pace that made him feel he was flying. He grinned as he gestured for Aziraphale to go ahead of him.

He wasn’t thinking, when he passed a table and saw a woman shouting at a flustered waitress. His eyes flicked between them only once, and he flicked a snap behind him as he moved on.

Aziraphale glanced back. He’d sensed the miracle. “What was that?”

Crowley jerked his head at the table, grinning. “That rude woman’s going to leave a fifty-dollar tip tonight by mistake. Won’t have any idea where that bill got to, come tomorrow morning. But the waitress is getting the surprise of her life.”

“Oh, honestly.” Aziraphale’s eyes twinkled. 

“Need some kind of use for all these demonic miracles.” 

Aziraphale took his hand as they sat; the twinkle in his eyes turned to something softer as the waiter moved away. “What a kind demon you are.” 

It was inevitable, but that didn’t make it any easier. When those words shot through his veins like ice, and suddenly he wasn’t in the restaurant anymore, wasn’t beside Aziraphale - he was in Hell, he was on his knees, he was screaming.

_What right do you think you have, being kind? You think that’s what you fell out of Heaven for?_

“Crowley?”

Crowley withdrew his hand quickly and gave Aziraphale a small, strained smile. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m - I’m not kind. I’m a demon.”

Aziraphale was frowning at him now. The concern, which Crowley had been so outraged by on the day Aziraphale had shown him his wings, was back in full force. No, no, Aziraphale shouldn’t be worrying about him. 

_Doing good deeds? Really?_

_It’s like you don’t understand what being a demon means._

“Are you all right, darling?” Aziraphale made no more move to reach for him, but he leaned forward, forcing eye contact from Crowley even through his sunglasses. Crowley worked to shove his sudden terror back down.

Ridiculous. He was free of Hell now. There was no need to remember -

“I’m fine,” he said, more shortly than he’d intended. 

Time after time, Crowley couldn’t help slipping up. A snap of his fingers that kept a child from drowning, or fed a hungry beggar, or did any number of things Hell didn’t approve of; sometimes he couldn’t keep track himself, of all the things he was doing wrong. But he knew when they came for him. He knew, when he was dragged off to his punishment, that he’d turned away again from their ironclad system and forced them once more to remind him what they did to dissenters. 

Aziraphale was saying something else, but Crowley couldn’t hear him. The restaurant seemed to have grown unbearably loud all of a sudden. He stood, his knees wobbling, and mumbled something about using the bathroom before bolting away. 

He found himself under white lights, brighter than the rest of the restaurant. He was alone. He made his way to the sinks and stared at himself in the mirror.

His face was pale, almost sickly. His breathing was shallow enough that he could see his chest rising and falling, trace the tension in his shoulders as he gripped the sink’s sides. He tried to miracle his heart to a slower rate, but it wouldn’t obey him. The world seemed to have slipped out of his control.

He pushed up his sunglasses. His eyes were wide and bloodshot beneath them. 

His wings lay on some other plane, wide and black and whole. But here in this harshly lit room he saw imprints of what they had been only a week earlier; bloody, broken, mangled things. Horrifying to look at. So horrifying it made nausea rise violently in his throat. 

No. He swallowed hard. No, he was being stupid. They’d beaten Hell. They were free. And Aziraphale was out there waiting to enjoy a nice lunch, and he didn’t need to be weighed down with Crowley’s senseless terror.

He forced himself back to the table and gave what he hoped was a more convincing smile to Aziraphale.

“Ready to order, angel?” he asked.

Aziraphale was practically glowing. “Oh, Crowley, there’s _so_ much on the menu I want to try!” 

_____

But it didn’t go out of his head. The miracle had been performed with a single snap of his fingers, but he couldn’t stop reliving it, couldn’t stop seeing it happen over and over, as they ate, as they drove home; he couldn’t stop wondering what they’d do to him for it, how severe the retribution would be.

That old, tingling numbness threatened to return as the sky darkened. He drifted through the bookshop, not seeing the titles of the books, not hearing Aziraphale’s chatter as he closed up and prepared for bed. The closer they drew to night the more inevitable it seemed.

Why should he think they’d stop coming for him? After all this damned time why should they let him off? Because he’d survived holy water? Did he so easily forget that they had a thousand other ways to hurt him beyond the holy? 

“Crowley,” said Aziraphale, “are you ready to come to bed?”

He’d been staring blankly out the window. He pasted on another smile as Aziraphale led him up to the flat above the shop, trying to draw comfort from the budding familiarity of it. They reached their shared bedroom and Aziraphale began to undress, and he was at ease, he was smiling, he laid a kiss on Crowley’s forehead as he went to hang up his waistcoat. 

Over and over and over, he saw the snap of his fingers. He’d gone a week, a glorious, blessed week with his world clean and healed and light. Maybe that was longer than he should have expected. Maybe he ought to feel grateful.

Aziraphale lay down. “Come here, dearest.” 

Crowley crept slowly under the covers. Aziraphale held out his arms, and Crowley sank into them, letting them wrap tight around him. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to fold himself into darkness. 

Should he welcome the encroaching numbness? Should he let it back in, let it swallow him once again in resignation, so he’d be prepared for whatever came for him in the night? Should he let sleep bring that bleak void once more into his mind?

Oh, but Aziraphale’s breath was warm and sweet against his hair, and his wide arms were so gentle as they held him, and if tonight was really the end could he bear to give up this beauty for the final seconds he had it?

He fell asleep thinking of bright white feathers. 

_____

_“Take him!”_

_Crowley sat bolt upright. The bedroom door had been flung open and figures crowded the doorway. Demons, grinning and empty-eyed, were already advancing on him, tramping through the darkness like they were made for it. Crowley scrambled up, pushing himself hastily from Aziraphale’s arms, stumbling out of bed to put as much distance between himself and the angel as possible._

_“Don’t worry,” sneered the closest demon. “We’re not here for your friend.”_

_Demons on either side, and they had him by the arms, and he fought. He couldn’t help it, though he knew it would make his punishment worse, though they were all amazed he hadn’t learned his lesson yet - he strained toward the window, his wings popping out as he tried to fly toward them, but too many hands held him back._

_“Tie him!”_

_Crowley couldn’t see the owner of the voice. He felt rope bite into his wrists and twisted, trying to break free, but they were experienced, they were trained professionals. In another moment a gag had been stuffed into his mouth and they were hauling him toward the door._

_He could already feel the flames, already smell the brimstone that waited for him, already feel the crushing of his wings as they lost their perfect shape again and again and again -_

He woke with an agonized cry. 

At first the darkness blinded him. He was sitting up, his hands clutched something soft, but he couldn’t see - flames were imprinted onto his retinas, still shifting and swelling and raging toward him. He blinked furiously and shook his head, working desperately to take in his environment. 

“Crowley?” 

Crowley’s heart stuttered. He looked down; Aziraphale was curled up beside him.

He was in bed. In Aziraphale’s bed. His hands were fists in Aziraphale’s sheets, and his surroundings were nothing but the ordinary dresser and the frilly curtains over the window and a mirror in which he could see the side of his bone-white face. 

“Aziraphale,” he choked.

Aziraphale was squinting up at him. “What is it? Did you have a nightmare?”

The window…

Crowley stood abruptly and crossed the room toward it. He flung apart the curtains, gazing out over the London sky. His heart stuttered again at the sight; light grey, tinged with hints of blue, was creeping over the skyline to the east.

It was morning. Just before dawn. They hadn’t come for him. 

“Crowley, come back to bed,” said Aziraphale, sounding as though he was doing his sleepy best to pout. “You’ll freeze your feet out there.”

They weren’t coming. 

Crowley turned back to Aziraphale, staring from him to the door. His angel was warm and inviting. The door was shut, undisturbed by demons. The roaring was back in his ears, suddenly - a roar like a stampede, like an avalanche. But this time it was another sensation that overwhelmed him.

He sagged back against the wall, sliding down until he sat hunched over on the floor. Then he put his face in his hands and wept. 

“Oh, _Crowley._ ” Aziraphale pushed aside the blankets and was on his feet; he sat before Crowley, pulling Crowley’s head down to rest on his shoulder. Crowley sobbed into the soft cotton as Aziraphale’s arms wound around him, one hand tenderly rubbing his back. He didn’t have the energy now to hug himself into shape. Aziraphale held him instead.

“I th-thought they were going to take me away again,” Crowley whimpered. “For what I did at the restaurant.”

Aziraphale’s grip tightened. “They’re never going near you again, beloved.” 

“I can’t - I can’t _hide_ from them, angel -”

“Shh.” Aziraphale kissed him on one cheek and then the other. “We won’t let them. We’re smarter than they are. Stronger.”

Stupid of him, to believe words like that. Stupid to think there was any way out of Hell once you’d gone in. But he let Aziraphale’s hands comfort him all the same, as the sun slid up over their windowsill, as the new day dawned in defiance of the underworld. He let the fact that he was here, and nowhere else, be the miracle of today. 

“You aren’t alone now, Crowley,” Aziraphale said. 

And oh, he wanted to believe it.


	3. Chapter 3

_I should go see my plants._

The rug silenced Crowley’s footsteps. He wished it wouldn’t, wished boards would creak beneath his shoes to provide some outward testimony to his agitation. Aziraphale was shelving books; he’d been buried within the stacks for hours now, and Crowley wouldn’t be surprised if he’d gotten lost reading something. He didn’t know Crowley had been wearing a path in his carpet with ceaseless pacing. 

He had to leave. He had to tell Aziraphale he was leaving. It had been too long since he’d gone to see his plants.

_Aziraphale, I need to go._

It should be a simple thing. They had nothing planned for the evening - he’d been putting this off for almost two weeks, excusing it with dinner dates and movies and spirited games of Monopoly. _I’ll get to it tomorrow._ But it had been too long now. He couldn’t avoid them forever. No matter how warm and wonderful the bookshop was, they weren’t going away while he hid here. 

_I should go. I should go. I should…_

He didn’t want to. The image of them, looming over him, too human not to despise him for what he’d put them through, it was still branded into his mind. He didn’t want to face them again. He didn’t want to remember the momentary savage pleasure he’d gotten from destroying the ones that underperformed. 

But if he didn’t check on them, couldn’t they grow out of their pots? Take over his house? Wasn’t that worse? Wasn’t it better to keep them contained? 

_Angel, I’ll be out the rest of the afternoon, have to take care of some stuff in my flat, no, I’d rather you didn’t come with me._

His feet were starting to hurt from pacing when he heard a throat-clearing noise behind him. 

It still seemed impossible that Aziraphale could be so close, so _openly_ close to him, love rolling off him from every angle, and Crowley could fail to notice. That he could be startled out of a reverie to see Aziraphale there, gazing at him with eyes soft and full of affection, with a tiny smile brighter than all Heaven’s light at his lips, and realize Aziraphale had been watching him for several seconds just outside his field of vision. But that was the way it was now. Aziraphale was always with him, and, impossibly slowly, Crowley was finding himself getting used to it.

“Hey, angel,” he said. 

Aziraphale set down the stack of books he’d been holding and crossed the rug to take Crowley’s hands. He still had that little smile on his lips, and Crowley felt the urge to kiss it - and then remembered, with hardly any shock, that he could, that he was allowed to. His face bent over Aziraphale’s and caught the smile. And Aziraphale sighed, unresistant as the kiss claimed him, melting into Crowley’s chest with the easiest devotion in the world. 

“Hello, my dear,” he hummed. 

Crowley didn’t let go of Aziraphale’s hands. They were softer than any flower on Earth. He broke away from Aziraphale’s lips to kiss his knuckles, breathing in deeply to take in the scent of old fabric and pages. 

“Crowley,” said Aziraphale, ducking his head to catch Crowley’s eye.

Crowley raised his eyebrows. 

“My love, can I ask you for something?” 

He grinned a crooked grin and captured Aziraphale’s mouth again. Warmth and wine and love. He let their breaths mingle as their faces stayed close, their foreheads touching. “Anything you like, angel. Always.” 

Aziraphale’s hands released his and crept around his waist, holding him still. “It may seem like a silly thing.” 

“Nothing you can’t ask for. Not from me.” Aziraphale couldn’t possibly know how much Crowley was willing to do for him. Or - he reminded himself - or maybe he could. Maybe he had, for far longer than Crowley had suspected. And maybe he was just as willing to do anything in return. 

Aziraphale pulled back to look Crowley full in the face. His smile was gone; he looked serious now, earnest. “Would - would _you_ ask me for something?” 

Crowley frowned. “What?” 

“I’d like you to ask me to do something for you.” Aziraphale’s arms kept him close. His gaze was piercing now. “You never ask me for things. It makes me worry, sometimes - that you still think you’re viewing this relationship from the outside.” 

_From the outside_. Crowley’s stomach clenched. The words struck a little too close to home. There _was_ a part of him that felt that way - that had never stopped feeling that way, since the first time he’d been thrown out of his home. It wasn’t a thing you ever forgot, Falling. 

But he didn’t think that way about Aziraphale, did he?

“I know you know I love you,” said Aziraphale. “But sometimes it might be nice for you to - to have a reminder.” 

Crowley’s eyes turned down toward the floor. “So what? You want me to ask you to make me tea or something?” 

“I’d like to make you tea,” Aziraphale murmured, and there he was again, kissing Crowley with infinite gentleness, and Crowley’s hands were free and found themselves cradling Aziraphale’s round cheeks, fingers brushing his snow-white hair. 

_From the outside._ Of course he knew it wasn’t like that now. But after six thousand years, there were certain things he’d gotten used to. There were certain things he didn’t feel the need for anymore.

Still…

“Let me think a minute,” Crowley said. 

Aziraphale nodded. He made no move to back away. His embrace was as warm and heavy and strong as it had been that terrifying night in his flat, before the day they’d saved each other’s lives. It gave him the same feeling of safety, to be locked within it. 

_They aren’t coming._

“All right,” he said quietly. “All right. How about - could you hold me, for a little while, and read to me?” 

Aziraphale’s lips brushed his cheek. “Read what?” 

“Whatever you were reading,” he said, grinning again, “while you were pretending to do work there in the shelves.” 

That got a laugh from Aziraphale. A bright laugh, one that shattered the quiet of their conversation - and oh, Crowley could live off that sound instead of food for the rest of eternity. It was the kind of laugh you’d never hear in Heaven, the kind Aziraphale couldn’t have learned from Gabriel or Michael. A kind of laughter his own angel had invented. “Don’t mock me. I _was_ doing work. I just got a bit - distracted, at points.” 

But there was no argument. Aziraphale led him over to the sofa that he’d vacated in his pacing, and seated himself comfortably before opening his arms to Crowley again. Crowley sank into them, nestling against Aziraphale’s chest, finding resting places for his wayward limbs as Aziraphale’s encompassing warmth surrounded him. He shut his eyes, reveling in the security of it. 

_They’re never going near you again, beloved._

_(Could he believe that? Was it really possible - after everything, after all this time - that they were really, truly free? That he wasn’t going to be hurt again? Was it really possible he could grow to believe that? Was it -)_

“Are you ready, my darling?” 

Crowley leaned farther into Aziraphale’s embrace. “Go on.” 

A kiss landed gently on the top of his head. Somehow even from that touch Crowley could feel Aziraphale’s smile. “Thank you.” 

_____

He squeezed his eyes shut. He sucked a breath in, then forced it out. 

It was late evening. He’d told Aziraphale he would be back before bed. It had been a long drive here, longer than was really necessary, but he’d kept doubling back or taking wrong turns on purpose. He hadn’t wanted to arrive. 

What would he find when he went into that room? It had been two weeks. Surely they’d have changed, turned brown and black, grown thorns? He’d never gone two weeks before without making sure they were in line. And surely they’d smelled weakness on him last time. And surely they’d jump at any opportunity to feel they were stronger than _something_ , after a life lived in constant fear? 

Maybe it would be better, after all, to just give this flat up and never return. What did he need with it anyway? What did he need with these plants when Aziraphale’s world was so wide and welcoming and full of love? What did he need with himself? 

But if there was one thing Crowley had learned in six thousand years, it was that he was the only creature in the universe he wasn’t able to run from. 

_I’d like you to ask me for something_. Spoken with gentle eyes, with gentle lips.

When, before, had he ever been allowed to ask for things? 

_Water, please..._

He opened his eyes and strode into his plant room. 

There were no thorns. They hadn’t grown out of their pots. They were wilting slightly, going yellow around the edges, but other than that they looked no different from how they’d always looked. And - Crowley forced himself to notice - they weren’t on the verge of attacking him, either. They were still. 

He shut his eyes, breathed in, breathed out. Opened them. 

They weren’t going to kill him. Not now, anyway. 

But they were thirsty. 

Crowley’s plant mister had burst on that day before Armageddon. In its stead he carried something far more ordinary - a watering can, one he’d gotten cheap from a convenience store. He took halting steps toward the first plant with it, careful not to spill a drop as his hands trembled. 

Water fell in streams from the can and hit the dusty dirt at the plant’s base. He watched the soil drink it in, turning darker. He imagined he could see the moisture absorbing into the roots. 

_Ask me for something._

In, out. 

He moved on. One by one he watered them, until his can was empty. He didn’t stop trembling.

He was gone again before the sky turned black.


	4. Chapter 4

Things began to settle. It was a slow thing, almost imperceptible, but to Crowley it felt as large as the universe. Day after day, Aziraphale there with him. Holding him when his thoughts grew to be too much. Laughing with him, when they were out on dates or walking in the park, joking and teasing each other like they’d done for centuries. A gradual lightening of his shoulders as he made his way through long, bright, angel-filled days. 

It crossed his mind, sometimes, for tiny flashes, that it would be easy to simply trust it. To believe Aziraphale when he said Hell wasn’t coming back. To put an eye on the future with hope for the first time since his Fall. 

Stupid of him - wasn’t it? Or could it be true? 

He dragged himself back to his flat periodically, to water his plants. Aziraphale didn’t accompany him. He would, Crowley was sure, if Crowley asked him - but the idea of Aziraphale being there with him while those plants crowded in around him felt somehow too frightening to consider. He didn’t know if he could trust them either. He couldn’t shake the thought that they might jump on him at any moment.

But they needed water, day after day and week after week. And he gave it to them without shouting. And sometimes he thought that might be enough. 

It was months into his new life with Aziraphale when Crowley realized, forcing himself to examine the plants with more care than he’d grown used to, that they’d gotten bigger. He tried not to let that revelation frighten him further. He tried not to ponder what it meant, and all the terrible things it could mean. That they were stronger and angrier than ever. He made himself notice, instead, that the larger green leaves were beautiful. 

Then he went back to the bookshop and Aziraphale met him at the door with a kiss. And Crowley melted into it and let himself free from thinking about anything at all. 

_____

It was a cold autumn night when Crowley woke once more with a scream. 

_They were back, they’d never been gone, the flames surrounded him, the leering faces pressed in on him, the screams of the underworld filled his ears and his wings had been dragged from his back again and -_

“Crowley, love. Crowley.” 

A little easier, by now, to heave a breath of clean air in and open his eyes. To find himself tucked into Aziraphale’s chest and Aziraphale’s arms around him, soft and sweet and free of pain. To hear the steady beating of Aziraphale’s heart, the sound soothing enough to block out memories of the noise of Hell. 

“Shh.” Aziraphale kissed his forehead and rubbed gently at his back. “Be well, my darling.” 

Crowley shuddered and felt the months-old tears running down his cheeks again. 

They came every few days, the nightmares. Sometimes Crowley thought they might be petering out, but then an especially vivid one would hit and he realized they were simply coming in waves, drawing back and then slamming back into him. Sometimes he would feel embarrassed about them, about waking Aziraphale up night after night with imaginary threats. In the daytime he would feel embarrassed. But at night the image of the demons taking him back was still too terrifyingly real. 

“I’m here with you.” Aziraphale’s hand smoothed back Crowley’s hair and then cradled his head against him. “No one else is here. No one is going to hurt you.” 

“Aziraphale,” he whimpered. 

It was a dark, slick thing that felt lodged in his throat, his fear, his haunted memories. As if he was still retching up the remnants of the darkness he’d choked down for so long. Six thousand years and he’d been so filled with it that he’d kept calm. But that oil-slicked lake was supposed to be exorcised now - he was supposed to be free of it. 

It had been months and that darkness was still clinging to the inside of him.

Aziraphale ducked his head and kissed Crowley’s lips, soft but deep, gentle but inescapable, just like the grip of his angel’s arms. Crowley clung to him, trying to wrap him tight enough in his arms to feel filled by it. Trying to let Aziraphale warm the parts of him that had so long been cold. 

Aziraphale drew away just enough to look Crowley in the eyes. His gaze was intent as he stroked Crowley’s cheek. “My dear, can I ask you a question?”

Crowley shut his eyes and focused every nerve in his body on the sensation of Aziraphale’s hand. “Yeah? What is it?” 

Aziraphale’s fingers were so wonderfully soft. They made Crowley’s skin feel soft, too - smooth and unblemished and cherished. Made him feel whole for a moment. “What is it that you’re still afraid of?” 

A laugh rose in his throat, choked and bitter. 

“Is it just that Hell will come back?” Aziraphale’s thumb brushed over his lips. “You’ve been just as kind as you always have, darling, and they haven’t come to punish you. I made sure they would fear you too much to dare, when I went down among them.” 

Crowley shivered. He didn’t want to be reminded of Aziraphale going down there. He didn’t want to remember how he’d tainted his only love with his damnation. 

“Crowley, are you listening?”

He shook his head. He pressed closer, closing the gap between himself and Aziraphale once again. He couldn’t look his angel in the eyes. 

“Tell me, beloved,” Aziraphale whispered. “Tell me what you’re afraid of, and I’ll protect you from it.” 

But Aziraphale didn’t understand. Crowley hardly understood it himself, but he’d spent long enough staring at those plants by now, drawing away and then drawing back in, watering them and retreating from them and fearing them and fearing for them, that he knew the outlines of it. He could come close to looking it in the face.

“I’m scared I can’t change,” he whispered into Aziraphale’s shirt. “I’m scared of what they turned me into. I’m scared I can’t - can’t ever be normal again. That I’ll always have it inside me. What they put there.” 

He kept his hold tight on Aziraphale; he didn’t want the angel moving back to look at him. He didn’t want to be seen, not with his face screwed up and his eyes still leaking salt water. Not with the ugliness still rioting around inside him, shouting that he’d never be free of it, threatening to pull him under that terrifyingly calm ocean again, this time to never emerge.

But Aziraphale didn’t move. He only combed his fingers tenderly over Crowley’s scalp. 

“My Crowley,” he murmured. “You don’t need to change. You already are who you are. Who you’ve always been. And who you are - not anyone more _normal_ than you - who you are is the man I love."

Crowley let out a sob. He ought to feel embarrassed, still weeping over all this, but shame was inaccessible when he was filled with so much love. 

“You’re not a monster, dearest,” Aziraphale said. “You’re hurting. That’s all.” 

It would be easy to trust it. To let Aziraphale’s words sink deeper into his mind than the darkness had. To let himself be open, to let himself ascend even as he could never stop knowing how low he’d gone. It would be easy to hold Aziraphale as Aziraphale’s great wings spread and he flew. It might be time, after all, to give the whole thing a chance. 

He didn’t remember when he drifted back to sleep. But when he woke to the chill of an autumn morning, sun was beaming through his curtains, and he let the rays shine down on his face. 

And he let himself think that might be enough.


	5. Chapter 5

The coldest part of winter had closed in around them. Days turned into short gasps of sunlight surrounded by black and bitter nights. The wind blew hard through the streets of Soho, chilling every inhabitant. 

The air was dry, and Crowley’s skin itched.

“Angel,” he said quietly. 

Aziraphale was curled up against the side of one of his sofas, his socked feet tucked under him as he read. He’d relaxed into himself a little more since the end of the world, Crowley thought; he’d grown more comfortable without his smartest clothes, and sometimes he’d spend whole days in his pyjamas. Sometimes he induced Crowley to do the same. When he looked up Crowley could see a kind of lazy contentment in his eyes that he’d rarely ever seen before. 

“Yes, my darling?” Aziraphale said. 

Crowley swallowed. The dryness in his throat had nothing to do with the cold. It was warm here in the bookshop; it always was. But there were still parts of him that felt restless. And there was still a part of his mind that hesitated to admit to it. 

“I...” Crowley shut his eyes. He breathed in, then out. Each day was the tiniest bit easier. 

_Ask me for something_ , Aziraphale had urged him, that day when he’d been pacing, when he’d been avoiding going to see his plants. Said in an earnest way, not with angelic generosity but with real, human love. As if Aziraphale wasn’t merely willing to care for him, but _wanted_ to. As if Crowley was so important to Aziraphale that -

He clenched his teeth. He had to speak now, or he would lose himself in emotions again. 

“Could you,” he said, voice striving hard to be steady, “could you clean my wings, Aziraphale?” 

He didn’t look at Aziraphale’s face. He kept his eyes turned downward, working to ignore the senseless terror that still shot through him when he thought about his wings too long. Working to remind himself that they were healed, that they were whole, that they were under an angel’s protection now. Working not to let himself sink back into six thousand years of pain. 

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale whispered, and his voice sounded like it ached.

“You don’t have to,” he said quickly. “It’s just - it’s been a while since I’ve had them out. And now that - well -” He couldn’t find it in himself to say it.

But Aziraphale didn’t wait. He laid his book aside and stood from his curled-up position, sinking to his knees behind Crowley on the floor. “My love, of course I want to. I -” His words caught for a moment. “Of course I do.” 

Crowley lowered his head. “Don’t want to be a bother.” 

“I’m honored, that you would ask me.” Aziraphale’s voice had gone softer. Then Crowley felt warm hands creeping around his waist, and Aziraphale was holding him, enveloping him in wide, soft arms and a gently yielding chest. Crowley felt himself relax as the embrace took over his mind. “I’m honored you trust me enough for that.” 

He was safe here. Safe, and so inexplicably, unfathomably loved. But there was more he wanted to say. 

“I don’t want you to ever feel like - like you have to do things for me.” Crowley took one of Aziraphale’s hands in both of his and brought it to his lips, kissing his knuckles, then his wrist, then the base of his palm as tenderly as he could. “I don’t - everything that happened to me, it wasn’t your fault. It’s not fair you have to live with it anyway.” 

“None of this is fair. You’ve suffered more than I have, my dear.” 

“Not the point.” Crowley shut his eyes tight and forced the words in his mind into order. He wanted to say this right. It had been a long time now, and he was beginning to understand, just the tiniest, tiniest bit, things that had before been shrouded in fog. He was beginning to focus on the questions he really needed to ask. 

“Not the point,” he said again. “You made your choices, and I made mine. The point is that you don’t _owe_ me any of this. I don’t want you to be - to be chained to me. Because you feel like you have something to make up for. I want you to choose me. You understand?” 

There was a silence, and for a moment Crowley was certain he’d said it wrong, that Aziraphale hadn’t understood. That he’d communicated some impossible idea that he didn’t want Aziraphale’s loving arms around him, just like this, for the rest of his days. But then a kiss landed on the back of his neck. 

“I do choose you,” Aziraphale murmured. “My dear, you are so _good_. I don’t know how I managed to spend so terribly long keeping you away from me -” Crowley shifted, about to object, but Aziraphale brushed a finger over his lips to quiet him - “but I choose you now. I will never stop choosing you.” 

Crowley’s fingers tightened over Aziraphale’s hand, which he still held close to his chest. 

“If I feel I have anything to make up for,” Aziraphale said, “it’s only how long I’ve spent denying myself the joy of caring for you.” 

A light, liquid sort of quiet was filling the bookshop. It wasn’t the poisonous calm Crowley had grown used to in Hell, but something else, a natural tranquility, a gentle, floating feeling, as though walking atop an ocean. For a moment, as though he had no fear at all of sinking. Crowley breathed in and let the smell of Aziraphale fill his lungs.

“Wings out, beloved,” Aziraphale said, and Crowley sighed as he shook his wings free. 

There was still that deep-rooted fear, when he felt them pull from his back; there was still that stark, undeniable vulnerability. Aziraphale could hurt him so easily like this. These bones were so impossibly fragile. But Aziraphale’s touch was light and sweet, gentle and soothing. His fingers on Crowley’s feathers were so tender that Crowley nearly shuddered with the pleasure of it. The restless itching that had pervaded him to the tips of his feathers dissolved in his angel’s hands; like gentle rain in a desert, the parched ground drinking it in.

_Water._

They spent several minutes in silence, as Crowley relaxed further and further. And the words were carried up in him as if by a tide; the longer Aziraphale stayed behind him, tending to his wings, pressing kisses to his shoulders and running fingers lightly through his hair, the closer they came to his mouth without effort. It seemed inevitable they would spill out. It seemed, suddenly, as if Crowley had always known they would. 

_Ask me_ , Aziraphale had said. And _you’re not a monster, dearest, you’re hurting_. And _I do choose you_. 

“Angel,” he whispered at last. “There’s something else.” 

Aziraphale tilted Crowley’s head back to kiss his forehead; Crowley let his head fall back, unresisting. Unhesitating. Aziraphale’s lips were curved into a smile with the kiss. “What is it?”

“I… I’d like you to come to my flat tonight. There’s something I should show you.” 

They had no plans, and he’d been thinking of going by once more to water his plants. But maybe, just maybe, it was time he stopped making that journey alone. 

“Of course,” said Aziraphale, kissing him again with that softly smiling mouth. “It’s a date.” 

_____

There was a certain kind of unreality he entered when he came into his plant room. He didn’t know how it had all begun - he’d collected plants, studied plants, for a long time, and he remembered when he’d learned that humans talked to them, but he suspected the unreality had come before that. He suspected the way he looked at the plants he owned had its roots too far back in time to be remembered clearly. But since it had started, it had grown and grown and grown until his plants seemed to become a reality in and of themselves. 

That reality had been one of anger and terror for as long as he’d been aware of it. Even now, as he led Aziraphale toward it, he couldn’t quite banish those feelings. 

He hadn’t shown Aziraphale his plants, the night they’d spent here together. He hadn’t nearly had the courage for it then. But summer and autumn had passed now, and time was crumbling his walls. 

“Here we are,” he said, his voice shaking. 

It was almost strange, watching Aziraphale step easily into the plant room. As if in a corner of his mind Crowley had expected some physical barrier to stop him. He edged in after Aziraphale. His eyes weren’t on his plants, as they usually were; instead they studied Aziraphale’s face, carefully tracking his eyes as they flicked over the room’s contents.

“I didn’t know you kept houseplants,” said Aziraphale.

Crowley made a noncommittal noise. His heart was suddenly beating in his throat. 

“They’re -” Aziraphale frowned. “Why are they…” 

His lungs were trembling, his hands too jittery to do anything but sit clenched by his sides. He couldn’t speak as he watched Aziraphale step forward hesitantly. As he watched Aziraphale stretch out a hand and lay a finger on the leaf of one of the nearer plants, a crease in his brow. 

“Crowley,” said Aziraphale, “they’re frightened.”

Crowley nodded mutely.

“Why are they frightened? _How_ are they frightened? Did you…” He turned back to look Crowley in the eyes, and Crowley’s heart sank down to his toes.

Aziraphale’s expression was one he’d never seen before. It was shock mixed with confusion, teetering on the edge of anger. It was a look he would have given at a betrayal. What had he realized? What had he understood at the nature of Crowley’s plants that was causing him to recoil? The fear in Crowley’s mind was multiplying, blooming outward and spiraling down, ready to envelop him once again. This had been a mistake, he’d been stupid, he’d dared to think this all might finally be behind him and now...

“What did you do to these plants?” Aziraphale said furiously. “Did you give them emotions just so you could terrorize them? Is this where you disappear to, when you’re going to your flat?”

“I’m sorry,” Crowley stammered, backing away toward the wall. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to -”

“What could possibly induce you to do this?” 

He put his face in his hands. Oh, he wasn’t really going to have to explain, was he?

“Answer me, Crowley!” 

“It’s not them. It’s not - it’s not because -” He curled his hands into fists again over his eyes, and tried to remember the ease and the peace of the bookshop. Tried to remember Aziraphale’s fingertips in his wings, and Aziraphale’s hands on his chest, and Aziraphale’s body holding him as he slept. Tried to remember safety and acceptance and understanding. 

Aziraphale was quiet. Waiting, once again. 

“I want them to be beautiful,” Crowley whispered. “I didn’t know I was bringing them to life. I shouted at them - I’ve been shouting at them for years - because I was angry. Because they kept wilting. I hated them when they wilted. And now they hate _me._ ” 

There was a long silence. Then: “I don’t understand.” 

“I want them to be beautiful.” Crowley was curling in on himself again, hunching over his chest for protection. “I want them to stop being broken.” 

Crowley heard Aziraphale draw in a deep breath. He felt the sound was flaying him open, leaving him bare again. 

“I’m trying to - to be better to them,” Crowley mumbled. “Since the end of the world, I’ve been trying. I don’t want them to hurt anymore. But I can’t just get rid of them - I tried to do that plenty of times before.” How to make Aziraphale see? “If I get rid of them it feels like - like I’m giving up on myself. Like I’m admitting I’m past saving.” 

When at last Aziraphale spoke, the anger was gone from his voice. “I see.”

_Did_ he see? Crowley had spent months attempting to see it himself. 

The breath came out, a deep, gentle sigh. Then Aziraphale was holding him once more. Great angelic body enfolding him, and that put a balm over his aching heart, over his split-open ribs. 

“I see, a little bit,” Aziraphale said. “But why did you want to show them to me? Why now?”

“Thought I might be ready.” Crowley leaned his head down on Aziraphale’s shoulder. “Thought maybe - maybe you could help me change how they feel.” 

It had been a long time now. There was a certain kind of trembling, glowing hope that couldn’t help but spread up from Crowley’s stomach into his chest, when the world was saved and Aziraphale was beside him. When he’d faced down Satan and survived, when he’d passed through Heaven and emerged victorious over the angels who had cast him out. And every day the love that surrounded him helped that hope to grow. There was a certain point at which Crowley had found himself desperately, tentatively believing the future was bright. 

Aziraphale unwound his arms from Crowley’s waist and met his eyes. Crowley could see the smile dawning in them, breaking over his face like the first sunrise of a new made-over world. 

“I think I can do that, darling,” he said. 

Then he broke away and turned back to the plant he’d laid a finger on before. No more anger or hurt on his face. He approached, close enough to examine where its stem burst up from the soil.

“It _is_ beautiful, you know,” Aziraphale said softly. 

Crowley didn’t think he’d ever be able to speak again. 

“Such a lovely shade of green. And…” Aziraphale glanced at Crowley again. “And strong, too. Its roots are deep. I’ll bet it’s resilient in dry times.”

But there was no need to speak, he thought; not here, not now. There was no fight to be won and no pain left to reveal. All that was left was to allow himself to be comforted. 

“They’re all strong.” Aziraphale spun in a slow circle, taking in every last plant, and Crowley could feel the love rolling off of him, washing away the bitter tang of fear that had always stained the air of this place. “They’re all incredible things, to have survived so long, to have been through so much, and still to be so lovely.” 

Crowley offered Aziraphale a watery smile.

“I’m proud of them,” Aziraphale said softly. “And I’m proud of how they’ve grown. And I - I can’t wait to see how they grow more tomorrow.” 

They were so small, in the grand scheme of things, the two of them. Crowley had always been acutely aware of how small they were. And the plants were even smaller. There was no reason this tiny piece of light should be able to banish the centuries of darkness that had come before it. No logical reason. No reason anyone outside this room would accept.

And yet it was enough. As he stepped forward, suddenly and forcefully, and kissed Aziraphale with all the love of an eternal lifetime, it was enough, at last, at last.


	6. Chapter 6

Time passed. It wasn’t easy; some nights, some nightmares still felt never-ending. But the days went in and out in a steady beat like an angel’s heart. And eventually the ice broke and winter melted into spring again. 

Aziraphale lavished love onto Crowley’s plants. Within weeks they’d learned to sense his approach, and when Crowley entered the room with him the air no longer stank of fear; there was anticipation instead, and welcome. It seemed impossible. Crowley could hardly fathom the change could come so quickly, so sweetly. And yet when Aziraphale drew Crowley into his arms and kissed him gently, and whispered how dearly he loved Crowley in his ear, Crowley suspected this change had been coming on for a long time. 

They watered the plants together. And the plants grew, higher and greener and more glorious than Crowley could ever remember. And the fear of this place was leaching away like ink in an ocean. 

Sunlight crept through the doors and windows of Soho, and the world was at peace. 

It was May the first time they tried it. Aziraphale led Crowley out onto the roof of his bookshop, and they stared down at the streets bustling below in the warm evening light. They sat together, Crowley’s arm around Aziraphale’s wide waist, his head on Aziraphale’s soft shoulder. Aziraphale stroked his arm lovingly as they watched the sun sink toward the buildings in the west. 

“What do you think?” Aziraphale murmured. “Are you ready?” 

Crowley turned his face to breathe in the smell of Aziraphale’s shirt, to nuzzle into his neck. It was still a little frightening, to be at such a great height, but hope was overwhelming that fear these days. And hope was telling him to dare to want to climb higher.

“I’m ready,” he said. 

He unfolded his wings. No one below would see them; he and Aziraphale used a double miracle to make sure of it. He was free to stretch them out as far as they would go. They were a little sore, after spending days tucked out of sight, but the stretch felt good - the release of tension, the freedom of movement. The ability to show them proudly in front of someone else.

They were wide and strong and whole. They weren’t broken anymore. 

Aziraphale’s wings were next; Crowley sat back as they burst free and settled gracefully down onto the roof. No trace, now, of the marks that Hell had branded into them. Crowley pulled Aziraphale into a gentle embrace, covering the angel’s white feathers with his black ones; he soaked in the touch as he held Aziraphale close. He still remembered the day Aziraphale had come back from Hell. He wouldn’t forget it if he lived for another eternity. But now he was able, for eternity, to wrap himself around his angel and keep him safe. And Aziraphale could do the same for him. 

“Oh, my Crowley,” Aziraphale whispered. “I am so very much in love with you.” 

Crowley smiled, a real, full, contented smile. He relished the moment for a little longer, and then he stood, his wings stretching out again.

It had been six thousand years. The things they’d done to his wings, the things he’d concealed, still felt like they’d always be etched onto his skin somewhere - if not here, then in whatever plane housed his memories. Somewhere in the universe he would always carry that pain. But it might be possible, just maybe, for him to see past it to something new.

Crowley shut his eyes and steadied himself. He was whole, he was free, he was loved. He was ready to rise.

His wings swept down, and then he was in the air.

_Flying._

Oh, in six thousand years he’d forgotten entirely what it was like. He opened his eyes and the ground was dropping away below him, the wind streaming at his sides as he _soared_ up into the gathering night. His wings forgot their soreness, because the exhilaration of flight was making them tingle, making them sing - he flapped again and again and then caught the wind, and he wheeled around to see Aziraphale behind him.

“I’m flying!” he crowed.

Aziraphale beamed at him. “You are, darling, you are!”

“It’s been - I haven’t -”

“I know.” Aziraphale’s face was filled with so much love it hurt to look at. 

He shot forward and flung his arms around his angel, and they rolled over and over each other in the air, neither losing height. Aziraphale didn’t resist the force of the spin, didn’t try to grapple Crowley back to steadiness; he let them tumble, and so Crowley surrendered to it as well.

Aziraphale was laughing, a laugh high and resounding enough to fill the universe, and Crowley found he was laughing too. A laugh that reached down his throat and shook his ribs. He pulled Aziraphale in and hugged him so tight he could barely breathe. 

_Flying, flying, flying_ \- never in a million years did he think he’d gain this ancient power back. 

Aziraphale’s wings flapped again and took them higher. The winds were stronger up here, colder, and it felt like they were blowing in the air of a new universe. 

Was it possible? It was. He had no more room to doubt it. For once in his life, he’d found something he didn’t need to question. 

“It’s real,” Crowley said fiercely. “All of this. It’s real.”

“It is.” Aziraphale kissed him. 

“We’re free.” 

“Oh, yes.” The kiss turned deeper. “As free as we like.”

It was enough. Crowley believed him. It had been six thousand years and he was airborne again, and Aziraphale had saved him from Hell, and Crowley had kissed this beautiful man, and he’d let his guard down and been met with love, and anything in all creation was possible.

**Author's Note:**

> Like my content? Find me on tumblr @[whatawriterwields](https://whatawriterwields.tumblr.com)!


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